Tormented by my own mind
by bamitsbeth79
Summary: This drabble is for the writing prompt- A Character Realizes what they fear. It is quite a sad piece of writing, but as they say in Game of Thrones- fear cuts deeper than swords. I'd like to thank my best friends Holly and Paige for helping me with the idea for the drabble and in naming the work. :) I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters.


Afghanistan. He didn't need to open his eyes; they were already squeezed shut from fear, to know he was back there. He could hear gunshots being fired all around him; he could smell death wallowing through the air and could feel the ooze of thick blood seeping further into his clothing. Yet there wasn't any pain- this wasn't the first or last dream John would have about being back in the warzone- having to hear the screams of his comrades dying around him repeatedly, on a continuous loop. John would always be ripped from slumber from these nightmares, drenched in sweat. It was obvious Sherlock knew about them, but he never spoke of knowing. Though it was as clear as glass that he could see through John's charade; it was the worrying glances over breakfast or sneaky observations when he thought John wasn't looking in his direction- he knew.

Tonight's dream on the other hand was inconsistent, considerably so. As per usual he'd get thrown into the pits of war with his tired eyes tightly shut. Strangely tonight his eyes opened unwillingly and he was immediately met with pure fear. There he was standing alone in the middle of the unforgotten battleground- no one else was in sight from either side. John felt his pulse quicken from confusion, before a common smell started to tickle his nostrils, that dark stench of death. He spun around but couldn't pinpoint where exactly it was coming from, almost as if he had no choice in the matter his feet started dragging him along, bringing him closer and closer to death itself. Eventually after walking about a mile, the sights around him still exactly the same, he came to a halt. The smell had become unbearable- gut wrenching. Slowly, oh so slowly, a figure started to come out from the mist in the distance. John could have sworn he knew the person from just the way he glided on his feet, but it couldn't be him, could it?

The ex-army doctor desperately wanted to rub his eyes raw and wake up from this dream already- it couldn't be him, he shouldn't be here. Alas before he knew it there the figure of the man stood in front of John, his facial features so familiar. _Sherlock_. What the Hell was Sherlock doing in the middle of an Afghanistan battlefield? John tried asking, he did. Though his mouth stayed securely shut, he couldn't utter a word.

"John. It's okay." John's eyes began to water as he heard these words fall from Sherlock's mouth, despite how simple they were. Dream Sherlock began to reach out his hand, John wanted to clutch to the other man so urgently. Just to be in Sherlock's arms he'd feel safe- suddenly he felt his own arm reach out too. Maybe he would get to wake up from this gently. It wasn't until he heard the gunshot that his senses were back on point. Sherlock still had his arm reached out for John, except until the blood started soaking the front of his white shirt. John felt sick, he was paralysed with horror.

Abruptly he managed to break free of the trance that had been holding him back, immediately sprinting towards his friend, catching him from his fall. There in the middle of what was an empty battlefield John held his dear colleague in his arms, he could feel the thick blood oozing through his shirt. He could feel the stickiness of dark mess in his hand whilst he tried to apply pressure, but John knew he was losing his best friend- by his own hands nonetheless. At least a dozen questions flittered through John's mind: why did his eyes open in this nightmare unlike the normal ones, why did he shoot his best friend, why was Sherlock even here- _why him_?

"John..." It was only then did he gain consciousness from his disgusting nightmare, covered in his own sweat like usual, but to find Sherlock stood in his doorway. Sherlock, his best friend, was still alive and breathing. A huge sigh of relief poured through him, John looked down at his own hands still expecting them to be covered slick with the consulting detective's blood- they weren't of course, they were completely spotless. Sherlock came over to the bed in which John was trying to gain control over his harsh breathing. "Are you alright?"

John looked up at his best friend and couldn't help but remember what he had done, even if it was just another nightmare, but this one felt too real- that was what scared John. It wasn't being back in the battlements of war that terrified him; it was that if something ever happened to Sherlock he'd never forgive himself. He'd never hurt his best friend, ever, but what if he did unintentionally or by accident? That was what truly scared Dr John Watson.


End file.
